Brushes of flames
by Leara Fiera
Summary: When she was tasked with the liaison assignment, her life was pretty much a mess. When she starts to gain some control, it dissolves. Later-TIVA. Rated M for safety purposes and later content.
1. Chapter 1

**BRUSHES WITH FLAMES**

Tick-tok. Tick-tok. Tick-tok.

The un-altering sound of the clock ticking is killing her especially with her history of impatience. She has always been able to adapt to even uneasy situations but perhaps her true personality is shining through as she bites her lip in frustration until blood appears on her teeth, the taste of iron on her tongue. Even then she wonders what she should do.

Sweat drips from her forehead as the first drop of blood falls from her lip. Huh. She didn't even notice the pain. Her lip will heal though and everything will be fine. That is, if she gets away from this hellish nightmare where her wrists and ankles are tired together separately by rope that cuts into her flesh, infecting the skin. Her face is bruised and her shoulder dislocated but else, she is fine. Her pride is wounded but like these wounds, it will heal and she'll be back to the normal adapting, feisty and mind-reading person she was before this incident.

She thinks of it as a minor fault in her planning. Getting caught. Whilst it surely wasn't anything she had planned, it doesn't ruin her final scheme at all. After this, the item she is to acquire is still in the vault and her skills aren't influenced by the physical impact on her body. She can still run and fight.

As she makes a self-prudent move – raising her chin to declare that she has not admitted defeat – she winces. It hurts, that she cannot deny. It will take some time to heal, and she has to have it reset before it starts to heal incorrectly. She has still not allowed tears to break her ice-cold exterior and though it is far from the truth, she believes herself somewhat invincible. It is like playing tag; you have to be good at running to stay alive. Else you'll get 'it' and in this world, 'it' is worse than an unintended push towards the gravel. 'It' is becoming what you're fighting.

A smile escapes her lips at the analogy. Perhaps tag is a wrong comparison. It does sound as a very disturbing version of a child's play at least.

The door to her filthy cell opens and a man comes in. He is of the common type; ugly, dark hair and dark eyes. She might have seen him before but her blurry memories (she hasn't been cataloguing them like she should have) let her down. All she sees is how he moves towards her and is hit from behind with the butt of a rifle. She doesn't even flinch as his body drops limply to the ground. Her adrenaline levels heighten as she prepare for a new enemy and her body tenses. Is this intruder a friend or a foe? She wouldn't be surprised if he is just someone in the group who wants a higher rank. These men can be quite brutal, she has learned, though they have spared her. At least this time her skin won't be marred by cuts, shrapnel and debris.

Her curiosity gets the better of her (last time it had almost cost her a finger to appear curious, flippant) and she looks up. True, the stranger wears the same filth-stained clothes as the men responsible for this diversion of her plans, but his complexion is lighter although tanned and his sea-green eyes tells her that he has not an exotic bone in his body. His hair is dark ash brown but could easily have been dyed for the purpose of conviction. His eyes flicker towards her and she finds a slight emotion of surprise in his glossy eyes. She meets his eyes with an intense and burning glare of her own, ready to fight although she is tied to the chair, if it becomes necessarily. His body relaxes as he gives her the standard look-over, identifying the old, 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend'.

He rushes to her help, his senses still alert on the door he came through and the lifeless body of an Arabic-speaking interrogator (or at least she thinks he is – he could have been just a guard for all she cares. He still proposes a threat and her eyes doesn't leave the seemingly unconscious man – that he is, is a safe assumption but her training tells her otherwise).

Cleverly the unidentified man – who she by now assumes is an ally (though that doesn't mean trustworthy) – has started with her ankles and hands her a knife for the wrists. At first she frowns at this: she can easily stab him with it, so why trust her with a weapon? But then she seizes the chance for freedom and starts to cut the rope. She can hear the voices of uproar above her and wonders when armed and unfriendly company will join them. It makes her cut faster.

"_How long have you been here?_" the man asks. It surprises her how young he sounds and she states that it must be the filth and combat clothes that ages his appearance. The question isn't what she expected. It is calmed yet alert. He is not just a fool on a mission; he has been trained to provide shock treatment.

"A day or two," she replies, identifying his American accent that shines through in his moment of sheer panic. She smiles a tiny bit at his flabbergasted expression but quickly eyes the rifle. "Got any bullets left?"

He recovers from the surprise of her collected appearance and nods as the last rope is untied. She examines her wrists and is satisfied that they are not infected. They are red and sore from struggling but otherwise she is fine. He doesn't seem to think the same, though, and her earlier mentioned mind-reading abilities kick in. She has always had a flare for knowing what people want and expect. Right now they can't afford for her to be the damsel in distress.

"Good, 'cause we're gonna need it." She watches him load the gun in an all-too-rookie-like confidence as she jumps to her feet with her own arrogance. It may be too soon for her to use the dislocated shoulder and her face feels like it's been dragged through the landscape, but right now she's not interested in complaints or gentlemanly upbringing.

"Where are you from?" he says casually as she checks the door for people luring outside. She mumbles a slight 'clear' and moves further along. The hallway is empty and there's a ghostly abandonment over the place but her haste pace isn't affected by that, though her limp is visible to the man.

"It depends," she absentmindedly answers and her attention is elsewhere. It takes her a few seconds to realize that he is now wearing a questionable expression and his focus is not on the threat the sneaky hallways are posing.

"What about you? You surely must be with some sort of Intelligence?" she deflects, not taking her eyes of an assumed target. The shadows jump from wall to wall, keeping them alert. "Did you come alone?" she suddenly adds with no regard for the question.

"I'm with American Intelligence," he whispers. "And no, I didn't come alone," he adds, as if he reprimands her for underestimating his preliminary appearance. "Two men on the sub-level, three on the ground level – one civilian."

She rolls her eyes. Civilians. Who brings civilians onto hostile grounds?

"What's your rank and name?" she hisses through the silence and before he can answer, there's literally _fire in the hallway_. Bullets fill the air and they both press up against the wall, shoulder by shoulder, for cover. She feels pain shoot through her shoulder but instead of flinching, she bites her lip. Gosh, she must look like a vampire now, blood running freshly from her mouth in a crimson sauce. Yet she doesn't wipe it away with her hand, mostly because her main centre of attention is the stray bullets flying in the air between them and their enemy.

"Chris Lavell, field rating exchange officer of the DEA," he reveals as he shoots back in the direction of the hostile bullets. For a second there is no reflexion of his actions, and it is enough time for him to look at her, expecting a similar response. His sea-green eyes practically scream – _and you?_

"Let me tell you this, if we survive, I'll tell you. I'm with the EGIS." There, then it's said. Through her inappropriate field gear – leather stilettos strapped to her feet, gauzy leggins and a long lilac tee – and bizarre hairstyle (her dark hair had been pulled back in extreme head-aching trauma for the purpose of a unique tight horsetail, but now strands are loose from sweating, torture and her capture) – she has now revealed her identity. Lavell can easily pull records on someone who has recently joined the Egyptian General Intelligence Directorate within her characteristics. She is certain that her makeup is too faded for it to confuse Lavell of facial structures that is not hers. She is simply herself, quite filthy and smudged on the edges (though not completely unattractive in her current outfit). Lavell can think what he wants to think of her.

He widens his eyes a bit when he receives this information and his mouth opens slightly but his sentence – whatever it may be – is interrupted by bullets in need of dodging. Lavell prepares to shoot from the safe angle and she rolls her eyes, knowing that he won't hit anything if he remains against the wall. She grabs the rifle and in a swift and almost choreographed movement, she steps into the line of shooting, firing intensely with aim as she twists her body against the opposite wall. Lavell stares at her somewhat in awe, confirming her previous thoughts of him being a goddamn field rookie. Well, he is cute and he does have a field clearance of the DEA although she has no idea why an agency who specifies and deals in drugs would value a heroic wannabe-soldier be the name of Christopher (or possibly Christian) Lavell.

The silence that follows the shootings and the clicks of emptied clips is the signal. She throws the rifle at Lavell and motions for him to follow her. Injuries forgotten, she moves quickly before their enemy has any chance to reload the ammunition. She brushes against the corner, Lavell hot on her heels, and a spasm causes her to halt for a microsecond before she continues. The smoke clears, and she can make a person out of a silhouette. She doesn't have time to think, as the silhouette is in front of her – and aims a fist at said person who falls to the ground, obviously not expecting the punch of a former prisoner. Before he recovers she kicks her opponent in the gut. Although not the same affect as a combat boot would have, the stilettos do their job and the lackey groans in agony.

"Wait, wait!" Lavell gasps and then looks at the Arabic on the floor. "No, nothing, thought it was one of my guys," he excuses cheekily with an apologetic smile. She cannot help but mentally laugh at the possible scenario. Satisfied with the gut-kicked lackey, she picks up his rifle and uses the butt of it to knock him unconscious – possibly breaking his jaw, too. She doesn't waste time and starts running, soreness now getting to her.

Lavell's radio buzzes and starts to speak, "_This is Delta team, All upper levels cleared, sir_," a man's voice lets him know and suddenly she is aware that Chris Lavell may have more experience than she thought. He responds quickly but stays alert. Perhaps he is the one in charge of this operation.

"Lavell here, I've found one prisoner. Two men is taken out, I repeat, one female prisoner. Need for medical attention non-critical," he reports through his radio. A reply makes its way through but she concentrates on her former mission: opening the vault above her. She has schematics printed on the inside of her skull so she is well-aware what is the exact location of the titanium vault. But how will she lose Lavell?

One answer is the only thing that makes it through her mind and she sighs internally. Her sex is why she is usually chosen for missions. People usually underestimate a female opponent and always expect someone male. It throws them off. So she has to use her body for certain.. persuasion.

"Chris," she calls and stops. "I have to go get something."

Her voice has changed from purely professional towards relaxed and makes her bodily appearance more prominent. It's difficult when she's covered in filth, sweat and blood, but she hopes – _God, she hopes –_ that Lavell will be able to see her for what she is: woman. Her olive skin is not as filthy as his and her hair curls up to where it reaches her shoulders. Her kissable lips – what she's been told although they are slim and not considered full – are dry with blood and her dark eyes can convince him. Except he's trained.

"What for?"

"Some of my equipment. You said there weren't any more hostiles," she insists.

He furrows a brow at this. "No, I didn't. They said they had encountered five assailants. We don't know how many there's down here!" Lavell hisses.

"There was seven," she informs him quietly with a calm voice. Before he can ask how she came of this knowledge, she interjects. "Five up-there, two down-here. Do the math – we're safe. Let me get my equipment so we can leave!"

He hesitates but nods reluctantly. She realizes she still has his knife and offers him it back. He shrugs it off, gesturing that she might need it. She grimaces but smiles at his prudence. The knife feels great in her hand and the blade is clean, unlike any of them. It is not too heavy but its handle is smooth. It is approximately four inches long and made of steel. It could easily penetrate a lung and definitely cause major damage. It scares her to know that one move from her can be considered lethal. As in, ending someone's life. It also comforts her.

"I'll be back in three minutes," she promises and doesn't waste time on waiting for his reply but instead knowingly passes through the hallway, up the stairs and directly into the vault chamber in a hidden room.

Like a different era, she steps into the room with caution. The information on revealing the secret passageway the EGIS got from a lowlife on the street with ties to someone in the organization. There is a 70 per cent chance that it is wrong but luckily for her, the slight press onto the lower part of the door reveals the chamber. The chamber where the vault is located directly on the opposite wall of the door, in all its titanium strength. It is designed simply but it has state-of-the-art security. The panel pops up as soon as she enters the chamber and by heart she types the codes – 6678.433117-09502 – and confidently pushes ENTER. After a moment where doubt consumes her, the vault opens in an eerie silence and it is like uncovering an ancient secret.

The vault is perhaps larger than the chamber itself, and prized artifacts are located around on the shelves. She is only interested in what she came for – the scrolls.

She seizes the opportunity to look around as she stashes the scrolls in the backpack she left here when she was caught; on them are information the EGIS needs. She grabs the laptop that is situated next to the scrolls – probably for translation – and drops it in the backpack. By heart she knows that their values, diamonds, are in small velvet bags beneath the shelve of a great vase. She takes almost every little velvet bag and secures her foundings in the backpack, swinging it over her shoulder in a swift motion and she hurries out, doing the security notions backwards. When Lavell's team finds the chamber, they won't see anything missing. That is, if they are here to find the chamber or even examine the property.

She is just closing the secret passageway as she hears shouts in a foreign language she cannot identify; she can only rule out Yiddish, English, Hebrew, Arabic and German. A shot is fired and all her senses alerted. She finds the knife – perhaps dagger is an appropriate term – and storms to where she left Lavell. The sight is troubling.

Blood is staining Chris Lavell's arm – the one he uses for shooting she notices – and he is trying unsuccessfully to put pressure. He meets her eyes with a stint of panic in the sea-green orbs and she acts fast. Throwing the knife with perhaps not the greatest aim in the world proves successful when she hears the drop of a body dumping to the ground. Whether or not the stab wound was lethal, she is unaware. The shooting has stopped, is all she thinks about as she kneels down and tearing off a strip of her tee, she secures the arm and puts pressure on it. He is in chock, from what she gathers, and doesn't say anything. The sound of his radio scratching cuts the silence or panicky breathing and adrenaline burning.

"_Lavell, do you copy?... Lavell, DO YOU COPY?_"

She takes the radio in her hand, familiar with the model and says: "Whoever you are, Levell is down, I repeat, he has been shot. I am the female prisoner and I pose no threat. We need medical attention for Agent Lavell! Roger?"

Seconds pass and she imagines how the team leader grimaces by her stern voice and professional verbal use. Nevertheless, his surprised grimace passes and he reports: "_Female prisoner, what's your status? I am sending my men down. Where are you?_"

She looks around. The stairs are to the left and she knows their exact locations. She informs the Delta Team Leader about it and continues to put pressure on Lavell's arm. He bites his lip in a suppressed groan and she smiles genuinely for his sake. _He still thinks I'm worth being macho over_, goes through her head and they exchange a moment of silence and understanding. Her dark, dark eyes – almost black irises – meet his sea-green orbs of sincerity. She compares Lavell to a puppy because he looks at her as if she was something unique when frankly, she is just a prisoner who happened to be there when he came down in the basement. That is what makes her smile. The oddity of the situation. Two strangers.

Because it is not a cruel smile but one of relief and hope. Hope that they will have other memories. Memories of recovery and she knows that she will first sigh of relief when he is discharged from the hospital and well. Then she can go on and never see him again. She doesn't like funerals after all – who does? – and she is not a team player.

_But I'd like to be_, she wishes as Delta Team Leader comes to their help. He stares at her, obviously she is not what he expected, and nods understandingly. When Chris Lavell is put on a gurney, he motions for her to join him in the ambulance because she, too, needs medical attention, and more importantly, somebody has to debrief her.

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><p><strong>Reviews are desired!<strong> Especially because they guilt me and make me writer more faster :)


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Here's chapter two. I'm gonna be out of reach until Sunday and as much as I would love to post tomorrow, I can't. So here's a chapter. I'm thrilled that you like it! Though, it might not be what you think this is. Some things are gonna be revealed in this chapter and I'd love to have some comments, whether they're nice or not. Unfortunately, there wasn't enough space in this chapter and I couldn't make it all fit. Also, how do you like it from another POV?

Please - **reviews are desired!**

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><p><em>But it's more than I can stand,<em>

_when you're looking down on me_

_'Cause I can't live up to you, that makes me incomplete_

_I never wanted anything more_

_So I'll just say good-bye and watch you walk out the door_

_I want to be all you want me to be_

_I want to be all you think that you see_

- Zebrahead, "Expectations"

**2nd chapter**

Dennis Moreau had been with the DEA for six years when the assignment landed on his desk. Curiously, he studied the case and volunteered; after all, the team members were all agents he had worked with before and he putted his dislikes aside for the purpose of raiding a Long Island property. The owners had proven suspicious in their affiliations. The details were in the manila folder when he'd agreed to lead the team.

Now one of his agents has been shot and he has a female prisoner in need of medical attention. They are both sitting across from each other as the paramedics keep pressure on the bullet wound of one Christian Lavell. When Moreau heard that it was Lavell who'd been shot, part of him grew worried. Lavell is one of them he partially likes and a great agent with field clearance. He has a genuine heart and his skills are admirable. He was the best of his class and Moreau has nothing against the dirty-blonde-haired officer. Although there is a decade between them he has great respect towards the younger man. He is not like the young cocky officers who talk about their jobs arrogantly and braggingly. Moreau doesn't like those types and prefer working with someone like Lavell.

Though the younger agent is conscious, he is losing blood during the drive to the hospital. One of his other agents, Sigmund Farrell, has ridden with the ambulance, keeping tabs on Lavell over the radio. The Echo team moved in when they left the location. All hostiles are either down or severely injured. Moreau and his team found stashes of heroin and cocaine, and though Moreau wants to be at the scene, he would rather make sure young Lavell is safe. The bullet had lodged itself in Lavell's bicep from what Moreau had been able to see. He knows that a wound like that will take long to heal and had the man responsible for the wound not been taken care of, he would have done it himself.

Surprisingly, it is not one of his team members who took down the hostile who fired the gun. It was the young female prisoner who Lavell rescued. Well, Moreau doesn't know if Lavell did a lot of rescuing because it seems like she is capable of taking care of herself. The knife embedded in the shooter's shoulder says a lot about her skills. He hasn't spoken to her and they have been silent in the DEA van for two minutes. He is not sure why she was there, or why she was kept as a prisoner. Frankly, when Lavell had said there was a female prisoner, he had not expected someone as combat trained.

He gazes towards her, steadying himself. She sits across him, looking down in something similar to obedience. She is wearing some sort of club attire, a long tee with dark pants. Her shoes tell him that she was not sent in to be captured. At her side is a backpack and Moreau doesn't know what is in it. He hasn't asked her. Her face is hidden behind loose strands of coal black hair and the majority is collected in a ponytail. Her skin is smudged in dirt, sweat and from her lip runs a trail of blood, still glinting. He is quite sure that she is olive-skinned and her dark hair proves only that she could be Hispanic, Asian or Eastern-european – something like that. She appears to have no major injuries although her face consists of shadows. Moreau is not sure if they are bruises or dirt. She keeps massaging her wrists and he wonders if it is an odd habit or because they have been bound.

He is stalling and he shouldn't. Yet she shows no interest in him, attending herself for the care she needs.

"What were you doing in the basement?" Moreau questions authoritative. He is not fond of the situations and he has no idea how he will explain her presence to his superiors if she doesn't talk. Most likely she will be charged with federal conspiracy. For a moment he thinks that she might be mute.

"It was my mission to gain access to _something _on the property but I was captured before I had the chance. That is all I can say until I can verify that you are in fact who you claim to be. The DEA," she adds upon the look of confusion on his face. Her voice is strangely calm and she is yet to meet his eyes. He ranks himself uncomfortably to avoid the gut feeling she's giving him; she's secretive, hiding something.

"I'm DEA Officer Dennis Moreau, leader of the task force team who brought down the hostiles. My superior officer is Michael Crane, and you are in no position to possess your line of authority. First of all, who are you?" he questions superiorly and awaits an answer. Finally she looks up, her face battered and beaten though her nose appears to be intact. It's a gruesome sight and if it weren't for the dirt and bruising and complexion, he'd describe her as utterly pale. Her black orbs stare indiscreetly at him, making him uncomfortable about looking at her. Her face is slightly swollen and her high cheekbones are darkened by bruises. Her lip is split (though he cannot see the actual split, just the blood) and dry. She has a cut on her left eyebrow and she sits stiff in her seat. Moments pass.

"Is Chris okay?" Her voice cracks and she seems genuinely concerned for him. Something inside Moreau tells him that if she was a terrorist – she does have the appearance – she would not check up on him. Secondly, she wouldn't have fired back, avenging the shot that caused Lavell's injury. What surprises Moreau the most is that she calls him _Chris._ Sure, he's heard the younger man introduce himself as Chris Lavell to his colleagues but to a assumed-hostile found on a mission?Perhaps he has underestimated the nature of their acquaintance. God, he is becoming paranoid. It still bugs him, though, that she would call him Chris.

"Agent Lavell's injury seems to be non-life-threatening," he states, and it appears that she is somewhat satisfied with that answer. Relief radiates from her body language. He can't seem to stop studying her. He especially can't define her. All he knows is that Lavell supposedly found her imprisoned – how he is unaware but he expects a report from Lavell as soon as he recovers – and freed her. From that is it a blur to the moment she radioed in that Lavell had been shot. There was only her and Lavell as witnesses and a man bleeding to death, holding a rifle matching the bullet calibre in Lavell's arm – consisting with the wound size. Of course, she could have easily planted the rifle in the hostile's hand, stabbed him and shot Lavell (though that order seemed unlikely). Her concern for Lavell, own injuries and the fact she had followed willingly consisted in some trust that she is not their enemy.

She sighs. "I'm with the EGIS. The Egyptian Intelligence. I was sent in by the Egyptian government to reclaim something of value of their interest. You are as informed as I. I had no idea that DEA was involved," she says. Moreau is not sure whether or not to believe her.

"What kind of 'something'? – as far as I'm concerned, the Egyptian government has no authorization on American soil. That would perhaps endanger the nature of the relationships between our countries." He analyzes her as he tells her this. No surprise. Instead, she holds her hand in surrender and replies,

"I just did what I was told. The EGIS approved the mission. It was fully a retrieval mission. As I'm sure you are aware, I had no weapons on my person. When I was caught or after," the woman defensively states. No anger is present in her voice, and her English is flawless despite her young age. She can't be more than in her early twenties, perhaps even younger. Though her personality is hard to describe and her intentions even more, Moreau has a feeling that she is an opportunist. Right now, she knows that she is the weakest link because she was caught on foreign soil. She is, however, cocky enough to appear blunt despite the troubles ahead of this because of the way she was revealed as an agent operating on foreign ground. Her dark eyes burn with passion – for what, Moreau truly doesn't know – and he wonders if she considers this mission – whatever it was – a success. It sure seems like it, although there has been some surprises up their sleeve.

"You had the knife." At this, she flinches slightly, as if regretting the action that has taken place. She is not icy and doesn't pretend to be.

"Agent Lavell gave it to me, to untie my ropes with which I was tied. I wanted to return it, but he wouldn't let me. Said I might need it," she informs him, her eyes flickering to her lap. "We took down the second hostile – the first he had already gun-butted – and I went to get my _equipment_." Moreau raises a brow at this but she rolls her eyes flippantly.

"Anyway, I hear gunfire about three minutes after, and I run to Lavell. He has been shot, and the man who did it is still shooting. I take the knife, throw it at him and fortunately, I didn't miss." At this, she pales. "_Oh my God,_ is he gonna survive? I.. My superiors didn't give me permission to kill!" This is the first sight of imbalance he has seen in her. Her frantic expression finally dissolves and for the first time, her mental status equals her physical damage. She exhales and closes her eyes, before somewhat relaxing, going back to the shy surface.

"My name is Officer Leah Mizrachi. I belong to the _Mukhabarat_, as I told you before. Call my superior, Ali Hussein. He will verify that is was not my assignment to interfere with a DEA raid. That is, what I assume you were doing." Something bright in her dark eyes glints and it is the only thing pure in her swollen, dirty face.

"I believe you. After all, you saved my agent. What the hell you were after in that house, I don't wanna know. Our superiors will clash if they knew. Right now, all I care about is getting Lavell to a hospital, you some medical care, and Crane a report Monday morning," Moreau lets on. He looks at her pitiful figure who is radiant albeit bruised. So she is from Egypt Intelligence. It explains her exotic appearance – dark brown hair, black eyes (it has nothing to do with the bruises) and olive skin.

Mizrachi moves uncomfortably in her seat, wincing in pain as they turn left. She bites her lip, making Moreau wonder if there is anymore blood in those lips. Dry blood trails down her face, like she's some sort of vampire. Her dark eyes could easily scare him in the dark. He is unnerved by her and concerned by her obvious ache.

"What's wrong?" Moreau asks, staring at her stiff shoulder. He already suspects injuries but she has been good at hiding her weaknesses. He _knows _that he sounds so worried because she is female, but he sees wife in her place and instincts kick in. it is utterly chauvinistic but he is a gentleman.

"I think my shoulder's dislocated," she groans, clenching her jaw. _Definitely dislocated. _"I just need to have it reset at the hospital, then I'm fine," Mizrachi says, gasping the last words as they reach a bump in the road. A thud is heard and he steadies her with his hand. At first she looks at him, stunned and almost offended, but then her facial expression turns into gratitude. He nods in understanding and looks out of the window in the van.

"We're almost there," Moreau informs the Egyptian officer.

"Thanks," she mumbles.

. . .

Lavell is out of surgery after four hours. He is in Recovery, a huge bandage on his arm. The doctors say he is going to be fine after a few months with physio-therapy he'll be able to go back to work. Moreau says it's his shooting arm so he's gonna do desk work for a while until the muscles are fully recovered.

The other patient, however, looks worse than Lavell though she is sitting in a chair, curled up instead of lying in an hospital bed. Her shoulder has been reset, her skin been cleaned and she has several band-aids on her body. A slice of tape holds the cut on her eyebrow together and the nurses insisted that they wash her hair. It is still damp from exposure to water and shampoo, and she is utterly uncomfortable in comparison to how she was tied to the chair. Her wrists and ankles have been cleansed too, to avoid infection. The scent of alcohol is clear to her, but also numbing. She is certain that the head nurse slipped something into the soda she asked for although she refused any sort of pain meds. She needs to stay alert, even if the pain is slowly killing her.

It is stupid to refuse treatment, but for now she is unsure of what she should do. Obviously the DEA wants answers but she has the feeling that the senior officer – Moreau is his name – trusts her enough to give her false papers. Her patient wristband says CARNEGIE, DAWN but she has no idea who that is. It was Captain Moreau (that is what she calls him in her mind) told the nurse when they came in, was her name. Even with the safety of Dawn Carnegie, she doesn't want to leave a paper trail of pain medicine behind her. She will just have to be thankful that the head nurse slipped her something.

Leah or Dawn, she is getting tired. She is sitting in the waiting room, scaring off potential ER doctors. She would appear pale if it had not been for her olive complexion. Moreau has already come up with her cover: domestic abuse. If anyone asks, she came in with her brother-in-law because her boyfriend beat the crap out of her. An abusive boyfriend, she muses, she can handle. Though she does admit that it is a great excuse. It explains the bruises, the cuts and her arm in a sling. Her long, long hair has been collected in a horsetail – a nurse named Becky borrowed her a hairband – and her clothes have been putted in a plastic bag. The hospital gown leaves no privacy but the ER is almost deserted anyway.

Occasionally, a doctor comes to her, asking if she got lost or something, if she needs help. She shakes her head, smiling ghostly with the excuse, "I fell down the stairs," followed by "My brother-in-law is getting my things." In truth, Moreau is probably back to the scene and the only one she knows is lying in the Recovery Unit.

After forty minutes, Dr Bracelet (Leah can't remember her name, but her sparkly smile and ruby bracelet makes her recognizable) comes back, carrying some clothes. Now she has to act all secretive and scared, she reminds herself while flickering her eyes around. Dr Bracelet is approximately thirty-four years old and has golden hair, apple cheeks and dimples. She is perhaps ten pounds too heavy and has curvy shapes, but her honest nature is good. Why she became an ER doctor and not a pediatrician is lost on Leah, but she likes the woman.

"I found these. It's not much, but it should fit," Bracelet says and Leah takes advantage to read her name tag. _Dr Taylor. _How the hell could she forget that? It must be whatever the head nurse slipped into her soda that is taking control over her usually good memory. Bracelet just seems so more appropriate.

Leah – sorry, _Dawn_ – takes the clothes, recognizing a pair of jeans, a cashmere fuchsia turtleneck and a suede belt. She has already been equipped with a pair of nurse shoes, dazzling white and not what she is used to walking in, though they are much better than her stilettos. Luckily her underwear is still usable and Becky the nurse has borrowed her socks too.

"Thanks," she says hoarsely. She knows what Dr Brace- no, Taylor, is thinking. Here is the weakling who fell for the wrong guy. Right now there's nothing Leah wants to do more than strike someone and prove that she is far from helpless. Now she is Dawn Carnegie, victim of an abusive boyfriend. It explains everything and as many other times in her life, she accepts what the situation is and slips into a person they expect her to be.

"If there's anything, let me know – " Dr Taylor says. Her beeper goes off but she skims it, her attention still on her young patient. Leah knows that they don't believe she is past the age of eighteen, but she is, and she will not have to convince her. Several doctors have asked if they should contact her parents and although it almost brings tears to her eyes, she puts on a face and says it is not necessary.

"I will, Dr Taylor," she replies.

"You can call me Bryce," the woman says. "I have to go see another patient. I guess I'll see you around." She offers Leah a smile and suddenly everything falls in place. Leah even gives her a smile in return, though it has more to do with the fact that she solved the puzzle.

Dr Bryce Taylor – Bracelet. That is why she was so confused. She takes the clothes and goes to a toilet, changing into the clothes. The waistband is too big but with the belt it looks normal. The turtleneck is perhaps not the most attractive color on her (or Bryce Taylor, for that matter), but it looks fine and it is much better than the paper-thin sterile gown.

She decides to wander off. It is boring sitting in the waiting room and after a few minutes and a nurse for directions, she finds Agent Lavell's room. Room 211. He is lying there, still under narcotics, and it gives Leah time to study his features now where he is clean and dressed in a gown. On a heart monitor his heart beats strong and she smiles. If she had not met him under distress she would have found him attractive. His facial structure is handsome and she remembers the sea-green color of his eyes that seemed so young then. He is somewhere in his early twenties, perhaps four or five years older than her. She wonders who his family is, or why he even joined the Drug Enforcement Agency. She has too many reasons to join the EGIS – what are his?

He begins to stir. Her heart beats unsteadily for a moment – oh the irony – as his eyes open and he confused around until they rest at her figure. She doesn't know how to react to that and just stares at him like a feline watching its prey. He blinks once. Twice.

"Wh-where am I?" he asks hoarsely as if he hasn't been speaking for years. He clears his throat and repeats the question, although she heard him the first time. "Where am I?"

"In the hospital. I honestly don't remember the name," Leah admits. When his eyes widen, she realizes that he must be questioning why she is here. "You were shot in the bicep. The doctors said you're gonna be fine. Moreau brought me here behind the ambulance. And – and, don't look at me like that, I'm fine too!" His watchful and intense gaze is bothering her because she can't read him. Her so-called mind-reading abilities are no good when he doesn't even blink or give off anything but confusion.

"I remember. I also remember that you told me you would tell your name once we were out. Didn't think I'd take a bullet to get your name," he says, smirking. She relaxes. Finally she knows where he's getting at. His charming smile. The flirtatious behavior. And he _is _attractive and _did _take a bullet because of her.

"Mukhabarat – that's the EGIS, Egyptian Intelligence – officer Leah Mizrachi, happy to meet you, Chris Lavell," she says, holding her hand for him to shake, smiling all over her bruised face.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Sorry about the late update! I got back from my trip Sunday and was exhausted. I wrote something and finished it yesterday but due to the problems I couldn't post this chapter sooner. This chapter is a little shorter but I didn't know how to write it longer without adding meaningless crap. I hope you are satisfied. The Arabic in this is what I've gotten from online websites, so I have no knowledge if they're accurate. Most of the chapter is not exactly thrilling but I thought it was better to finish it before it got too corny.

It would be awesome if you wrote what you like the most and what you think I should write more about. Please, reviews are desired!

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><p><strong>3rd chapter: Confusion<strong>

He likes her. For someone who might have been the cause to the bullet wound in his arm (though not directly, but because he had to wait for her), he likes her. She seems to be smart, experienced and had it not been for the major bruising on her face, definitely beautiful. Out of the discoloration on her face, he can make a small semi-long nose, narrow lips and high cheekbones. Her eye sockets seem hollow but it is because of her dark eyes. He has never seen anyone before with such dark eyes. They fascinate him and he cannot seem to see what she is planning. He just has to trust her. She lets on to no doubt, only confidence. It soothes off of her. Her petite frame is only prominent by her height – she is approximately five feet six or seven (it is hard to calculate when you're in a hospital bed). He doesn't know where she has gotten her clothes but they seem too large for her. She isn't drowning in them but they are not her size.

He blushes and hopes she doesn't see it. God, what is he doing, analyzing her size and curves? What a pig she must think he is. She can't be more than eighteen years old! He keeps his eyes on her face though it's hard not to stare at the different bruises. She must have taken her toll of beating. Her eyebrow is broken, too, something he didn't notice when they were down in that basement of the house.

Now where he finally knows her name – Leah Mizrachi – he can get to _know_ her. He can see the person behind the bruises, the skills, the danger and the hard exterior. For now, she looks almost broken and uncomfortable. He takes in the whole picture. The small details he didn't see last time – before the bullet entered his arm, apparently.

Her hair has been washed. He can smell the pineapple scent as she nears him. He wonders where the hospital stores pineapple-scented shampoo. Perhaps she borrowed something from a nurse. Like the clothes. Has to be borrowed. Because she didn't have anything on her person-

"Did you get your equipment?" Chris asks. For a moment she looks confused – and the look on her face is adorable – but then realization hits her.

. . .

**Leah POV**

"Yes, I did," she lies. She doesn't know how to get out of this one. When it comes down to it, she stole for her government from a private property on American soil. Can she trust him? Her statements will collide if she doesn't. And his trusting gaze convinces her to tell him the truth. Her superiors won't agree but she actually feels bad about this. "I got what I came for."

At this he frowns. "What were you doing down there? I mean – before you were roped to a chair?"

"Collecting items of my government's interest. I can't tell you more before I have talked to my superiors," Leah admits, almost defeated. It comes off icily and she doesn't want to appear hostile toward him. After all, he rescued her and made the decision to trust her as an ally.

He tries to sit up, and she is at his side instantly, instead of hiding in the corner. "You really shouldn't – " And he looks amused at her worry. " – sit so soon after surgery," she adds while she blushes and tries to keep herself together. Why is this happening? She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear, hoping that he won't misread her concern for his being. She feels partly responsible for his wound. Partly and not wholly because she has taken care of the person fully responsible. She doesn't even know if he survived. Which reminds her of something she needs to collect for Chris.

"Why, are you worried, Mizrachi?" he asks, utterly bemused by her actions. She shifts into a more cold mode, knowing that she has a greater chance of being seen as professional when she doesn't react as a schoolgirl. Though she is attracted to him, it doesn't mean anything. This is probably their last meeting ever. She doesn't even know why she came. All she needs to do is talk to Moreau then she can leave. That is, if her superiors are satisfied with her work and want her to go back to headquarters. She misses her family.

"No, _Chris_," she deadpans. Her features change. "What does _Chris _stand for, really? I've been wondering."

She can have fun while doing it, though. She almost blurts into laughter as he replies, "Christian. And I'm an atheist, so it's pretty humorous. I guess my aunt really did blackmail my mother when they named me."

She is curious. And it keeps him from asking about her. So she asks. "Why?"

"Because my middle name is Marc. With a C. It makes my last name sound like Clavell," he snorts and she grins. He pretends to be offended but she knows he is not. Because then his eyes wouldn't be smiling and his lips not moving. He is a genuinely honest man and she likes that in him. Unlike everyone she's ever worked with, he comes off relaxed and with a wit. It amuses her to be with someone like that. Physically, she means. She knows better than to become involved in an dalliance with someone in their line of work, let alone someone from another country and another agency. Somehow that makes her sad.

"Well, Christian _Marc_ Lavell, I think that is ludicrous. You seem like a perfect gentleman, no reason to call you Clavell," Leah states in an assumed high-pitched voice. She smiles at him and involuntarily leans onto his bed for support. It hurts to stand up too long with her shoulder. That, and she's tired.

"Why, thank-you, Leah Mizrachi, for that and for saving my life earlier," Chris mumbles, his morphine finally kicking in and numbing his brain. He leans onto the pillow, away from his wounded arm and seems to roll into darkness. "Don't... leave...," he says as if talking in his sleep. He stares at her, awaiting her promise but she is almost certain that by the time she responds, he is asleep.

"I will. I just have to make a phone call, Chris," she promises. She stays there for a while, uncertain why she does it. Had she been family or friend of Lavell, she would understand this closeness (or, rather, need for physical closeness to him) and concern for him, but she is merely someone he encountered on work. She knows little about him, other than the fact that he speaks Arabic –

"_How long have you been here?" the man asks._

– yeah, he does although a little rusty. It could be written off as panic in his voice but his Arabic is fluent. His fluency would have come in handy on foreign missions, and maybe he has experience from some tours – though he hardly seems old enough to have been on tours – and she wonders with curiosity where he learned to speak and understand it. She herself has spoken it for a lifetime literally. From birth, her father taught her Arabic while her mother, being a native Israeli taught her Hebrew. She has been considered bilingual for most of her life, always mastering them and being able to distinguish them. Though it hurts her to think of her childhood – for what is lost is lost – she won't ever deny them. The memories. It stings like acid.

As for Christian Lavell's linguistic skills, she knows very little than the fact he is American. He works for the DEA and his team leader for this operation is Dennis Moreau who seems to have great respect towards the younger officer. Leah has too. For some reason, Lavell treats her differently and she has some worry for what will happen once she leaves. She just wants to know he is okay, and here she is, staying at his bedside like someone who knows him.

Leah leaves the room, mostly because she wants him to have some privacy (though he is asleep) and because it nags her that she almost cares for a foreign stranger. She remembers the reason she'd intended to leave in the first place – to make a phone call – and slips throughout the hospital in search for payphones. When she finally finds some, she is in the public ER and receives several stares and pointed fingers – the latter mostly from small children – which she tries to ignore. She dials a number she knows by heart, knowing that Moreau is probably (that, or his superiors are) calling her agency for verification that she is theirs.

It rings once. Twice. Thrice. Her heart breaks every time the pattern repeats and she is close to hanging up when the deep male voice answers.

"_Nathaniel Bitzazo, how may I help you_?" The Arabic is welcoming after the days she has been through and she thinks that tears of joy sprawl her cheeks.

"_Baba? _It's me, Leah," she breathes into the receiver, shrinking away from the world for the familiarity of home. She literally closes into the phone, not wanting anyone to intrude her privacy.

"_Leah? Ya-llah! Where are you?_"

"In the hospital. Maimonides Medical Center. I-I'm okay," she pauses. "Something went wrong, I was caught. But there was an intervention. I need to speak with Hussein, but I have no secure line to use."

"Okay," Nathaniel says, understanding the need to speak English in a public health hospital. Americans are easily on their toes. "I will contact him after this call. It is late. He is probably with his family now. It is his son's birthday today."

"_Oh_," Leah realizes, identifying her rudeness. "Which one?"

"The third. Michael, turns nine this year. They grow fast, don't they. I still remember when you turned nine. It was under unusual circumstances but you always kept yourself satisfied."

They share a smile across continents. She knows the spark in his eyes that lights up now, the tears threatening to fall, the hoarse throat and the quivering lips. She fondly remembers her ninth birthday although it was a dark time in their family. Their house was being rebuilt after a bomb had exploded in their yard. Their family had survived but with traumatic memories. Her mother had called old friends for protection. To this day, Leah still thinks it was paranoia that burned in Sadiqa's head. When that name is thought, she physically sobs once, but forces the sound back in her throat. Her eyes are glossy already.

"Yeah, what a year. How is Noah and Ahava?" Leah asks.

"They're fine. In bed. Dana is taking care of them this evening. I'm more worried about you. You sound... hurt," Nathaniel states uncertainly. His worn voice is heavy with concern and she imagines the sight.

"I'm okay. Who knows, I'm probably back in a few days," she tries to laugh casually but the feeling of invasion remains. "I think we have a jurisdiction problem, though. Ali won't like it – I was interrupted by a DEA raid."

She bites her lip in nervousness but is reminded by the yet-to-heal previous bite. It hurts worse than the actual bite itself. Soreness consumes her for a nanosecond before she returns to the conversation.

"... He won't be pleased, Leah. Interagency protocols are something to be handled with caution. You are far too inexperienced for this kind of risk. Our government had not passed on the information that an Egyptian officer would be there. It endangers everything," Nathaniel informs her in a tone that doesn't blame her. "I will contact Ali as promised and try to explain the situation. For now, you must rest. Are you enrolled in the hospital?"

"Yes," she replies. "The captain of the team insisted upon it. It is nothing, I promise, _baba_," Leah hastily says.

"_Ma'as salaama_, _bint,_" Nathaniel greets.

"You too, dad," she whispers and hangs up. Her fingers are trembling from anxiety. She exhales, knowing that she probably _is _too inexperienced to handle the relationship, she has endangered, between Egypt and America. It has been five months since the day she joined the Mukhabarat and the time that passed is blurry to her. Joining was, after all, her way to handle the grief that she was exposed to and a part of.

Six months ago, her beloved mother had passed away, ripped from her life too soon. Not just hers but also her family's – Nathaniel had lost a wife, irreplaceable. Leah could never see her father remarry again. The death of Sadiqa had been cruel and unfair. If anyone asks her if she has overcome her mother's death, she is speechless. She has no experience in grief or grieving, other than what a long-lost acquaintance once told her – of course, back then, she never literally thought she would have to use it so quickly.

_People will enter and exit your life but if they truly matter, their exit will mar you entirely. Their return will not happen and you will no allow them to re-hurt you. That is what hurts the most. The fear of loving again – or loving and losing._

Leah wipes her tears away but senses her own distress and escapes the awkwardness by entering the restrooms which is placed practically next to the payphones, probably not for her reasons. She sighs frustrated and turns on the water to splash in her face – to clear her head. So many things have escalated from the incident. She will not be the cause of an international crisis between her government and the U.S. She is a newbie, she wasn't even supposed to be doing solo-operations so soon but her team fell short and she had to replace the agent who was supposed to retrieve (_steal, _a voice in her head wickedly corrects) the scrolls and their translations. At the time, she was proud for being chosen and trusted with an op, but now, she feels defeated. She is not trained to handle and mend the relationship between EGIS and DEA, or Egypt and America, for that matter. She is merely a junior agent.

Leah stares at her mirror image. Although she holds her head high, she cannot help but look at her defeated figure. The discolorations of her face are purple, yellow, black and bluish, each telling its own story. She can't remember that she was hit _that _many times, but her memory is off. In a week, her bruises will fade and her face won't be swollen anymore. She'll look like herself again. The burning sensation of the scarring self-inflected wound on her lips remains, ever-sore and reddish. She knows that she was only in the cell for two days. She kept record on dawns from the small basement window.

She cringes as the paper wristlet grazes her wrists. The name Dawn Carnegie is standing out like neon, and she is once again met by the feeling of homesickness. She misses her own self. Although she has told herself that it – traveling across continents – is something she has to get used to, she cannot – right now. When this is over, she will take a few days off, spend some time with her family. They need her, from what she gathered from her conversation with Nathaniel.

. . .

When Leah returns to Lavell's room, she slips through the door, checking for nurses, orderlies and doctors. She doesn't want anyone to ask questions. Moreau has told her doctors about "Dawn Carnegie, his poor sister-in-law with an abusive boyfriend – shh-shh" and any of the hospital personnel will be able to check her medical record with consisting evidence. If they do that, she can't explain why she is in a gunshot patient's room and where she knows him from. However, if she's asleep they will just assume she is someone he knows and they have both been in an accident. Although what kind of accident that would have been she has no idea of. For now, she sits down in the cheap waiting chair of blue plastic, placed next to a sleeping Christian Lavell. Her eyelids become heavy with fatigue, and she realizes just how exhausted she is as she curls up in the uncomfortable chair. She stifles a yawn and blinks until she slowly falls into a semi-sleep.

She jolts awake by the sound of a clearing throat. Her stiff muscles disobey the will to jump to her feet and instead Leah is forced to compose herself. She looks up to see Captain Moreau, Lavell's superior, and behind him, another DEA officer (that is, at least, what she assumes he is) with blonde hair and a flickering gaze. He has to be in his late twenties, older than both her and Christian yet younger than Moreau, who is trying to get her attention.

"Miss Mizrachi, this is Officer Hecht of the National Security Council. My superiors and I have been trying to reach the EGIS for verification of the mission on the Long Island property." He pauses and nervously squints at Hecht and Lavell. "The EGIS was unable to confirm your story and your intentions. They claim that they have never heard of one Officer Mizrachi." He sighs, not disapproving but obviously distressed. He gestures to Hecht. "Officer Hecht is here to take you into custody for further interrogation in Washington DC."

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><p>TRANSLATIONS:<p>

Baba = dad

ya-llah = oh my God

bint = daughter

_Oh, cliff-hanger much? Well, reviews make faster chapters!_


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